Autobot of the Opera
by Rabindranath
Summary: A cautionary tale. Ch3: Antennae, and when Ironhide met Chromia.
1. Is it the Ghost?

_This fic is based off both the novel and the Andrew Lloyd Weber musical, so don't expect it to be a straight translation of one or the other. Of course, some things will be happening that most certainly did not ever happen in either book or play._

**AutoBot of the Opera**

**Chapter One: **_**Is it the Ghost?**_

The general public of Iacon chalked it up to simple cabin fever. It was, after all, an acknowledged truth: Put a lot of bots in an inclosed space for an extended period of time, and they _will_ start to go mad. (There were some who said that anyone who liked opera was crazy.) However there were very, very few who, passing into the great opera house, with its host of silent statues, long hallways lit only by flickering energon lamps, and vaulted ceilings all half lost in shadow, did not entertain, if only for a moment, thoughts of the Phantom.

The corps de ballet of the Opera Popularie Cybertronie were notorious gossips, besides being far and away the most superstitious of all the opera folk. Mainly this demonstrated another great truth: put a lot of young femmes together and they will talk themselves into a frenzy over _something._

"I saw him!" Firestar exclaimed, bounding into the dressing room and slamming the door behind her. All other optics turned towards her. "I saw him in the corridor just this instant!"

A few of the others gave little screams, and Moonracer staggered as if she might faint dead away.

"Are you sure?" Solara, one of the older dancers demanded. "Are you certain that you saw him?"

"As plainly as I am seeing you," Firestar declared, hand over her spark and optics bright with fervor. "Huge and horrible!"

Chromia snorted loudly. "You see the Phantom everywhere." The blue femme hopped down from her perch in front of one of the lighted mirrors and planted her fists firmly on her hips. "All of you do. Darting through the halls, behind you in the mirror, lurking on the catwalks, everywhere! And it's just silly."

"Not as silly as you in a tutu," Moonracer sniggered, and then shrieked and ducked behind Solara as an irate Chromia turned on her.

"Now, now," Elita placed a calming hand on the seething blue femme. "Perhaps some of the stagehands are having a little joke."

"No," Firestar shook her head. "It was the ghost! He was tall, and he had a mask on, and he wore a black cloak!"

"Who else would wear a black cloak?" Solara demanded of Chromia and Elita. "It is a widely acknowledged truth that the _only _bots who wear black cloaks are ones who are up to no good!

"Or worse," Moonracer whispered," _emo_."

They all shuddered.

"Have any of you _really_ seen the ghost?" Elita persisted, lifting her chin as she frowned at them. "Really? Or have you all been jumping at shadows and depressed old mechs? You all know that when their central processors start to go, they can't be held accountable for the strange things they do."

"He was not an old depressed mech," Firestar insisted, and Moonracer sniffed her agreement. "We're not the only ones who have seen him."

"Mirage saw him the other day," a little femme spoke up, her voice barely more than a squeak.

Chromia exchanged a disbelieving look with Elita. If the conductor of Opera Popularie Cybertronie had delusions, they were generally delusions of good breeding. Mirage believed in his spark that he was the long lost son of someone with a long name and too much money, and he seldom deigned to notice anything beneath his upturned nose.

"And Rumble sees him all the time!"

"With all the high grade he drinks, I'm not surprised."

"He said the sight nearly drove him mad!" Firestar protested.

"Well," said Chromia," that's what he gets for peering through knotholes into the Prima Donna's dressing room.

"What about the strange deaths?" Someone else protested.

Elita shrugged. "Accidents happen in a theater. You are being hysterical." She looked to Chromia for support, but the blue femme had firmly shut her mouth, a thoughtful gleam in her optics.

Solara stood. "It is time to get down to the stage for rehearsal," she said. "We will all go together, just in case. Unless," she sniffed at Elita and Chromia," you're feeling particularly brave."

"But don't blame us if the Ghost gets you," Moonracer said.

Elita waited while the rest of the dancers filed out and then turned to her friend. "Well?" She asked. "I know that look."

"I think it's all nonsense," Chromia snapped. "A ghost? Please. I believe in solid things; things I can hit."

The pink femme smiled. "I sense a 'but.'"

"But my father. . ."

"Ah," Elita nodded wisely," ballet master Ratchet, who will no doubt offline us both if we keep him waiting."

"Not only does he believe in the Ghost, he tells me that has spoken to the Ghost, and that the Ghost is very polite."

"I _had_ heard that your father was the one who delivered the much-discussed monthly allowance to this phantom."

"And is also in charge of reserving the 'Ghost's Box.'" Chromia threw up her hands. "I think it's time to quit show business. It does something to you after a while. I'm thinking about making the Hatchet retire and maybe I'll take up assassination."

"I'm not sure you have the delicacy for it."

"Oh, make a big enough explosion and no delicacy is require. Now come on, or the great Prima Donna will have our heads."

_meanwhile, on the stage. . ._

La Starscreama was not having a good day. First, the hat. He could not stand the hat. No, no- he HATED the hat. It crushed his glorious red curls, for one thing, and he was absolutely _certain_ that it made him look fat. Why else would the silly little ballet dancers be giggling at him?

"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!" He sang, projecting all his annoyance into his glorious voice. "AHHHHeeeeeeeOOOOUUUUU!!!!IIIIIhha**aavv**eeeaaaAAAHHHh**he**EEEadaaaaccc**HHHH**HEEeeee!!!"

Below him, in the pit, Mirage was grimacing with every swish of his baton. He thought his diva could not see it, but the expression of utter distaste was clearly reflected in a tuba! An aristocrat, Starscreama's left servo! No appreciation at all for the finer things in life.

In fact, no one at the Opera Popularie Cybertronie truly appreciated Starscreama for his glorious talents. It would serve them all right if he just dropped dead! Then no one would come to see their stupid operas, even if they had stupid little ballet dancers.

He finished the aria with a triumphant "DD_DDII_II**rrr**TTTT!!!!"

"BRAVO!!! BRAVO!!! FORTISIMO!!!" His ladies, Skywarpa and Thundercrackera, cheered from the side of the stage. Starscreama shot them a glare. There was another reason this day, which should have been an even more glorious day than usual, was spoiled: SOMEONE HAD FORGOTTEN TO FINISH HIS DRESS! Now, instead of the glorious confection of pink chiffon and rose silk, dripping with jewels and expensive embroidery, Starscreama had been forced to wear _this _hideous concoction from last year's gala.

And the stupid hat too.

It made him want to hurl the stupid little ballet dancers in their frilly little skirts against the walls. Yes! Now _that_ would improve this enterprise! The new managers were going to have to make some changes if they wanted to keep their star!

Mirage covered his optics with a sigh. He_ knew _that maniacal, (no, it was definitely _homicidal_), gleam. The last time La Starscreama had been so upset, it had taken the lead tenor Hoist, Rumble the scene changer, _and_ the managers to pull the diva off of that ballet femme. (Though, now that he recalled the incident, it had been more like rescuing Starscreama than the dancer. Chromia was no push over and it had certainly not been the diva's brightest moment, picking _her _for an opponent). Then there had been the requisite three days of sulks, the consumption of thousands and thousands of energon chocolates, (which had done nothing good for Starscreams figure), and then the managers down on their knees, pleading and begging, before the diva had agreed to return.

In his exceedingly humble opinion, Mirage did not think they needed Starscreama. Any robo-pig could have squealed through that aria better.

"Oh dear," Elita murmured as she and Chromia took up their positions backstage. "Our dear diva does not look happy."

"With a face like that?" Chromia snorted. "They should give Starscreama a mask, or we should preform the entire opera in the dark."

"Shh," Solara hissed, throwing a look over her shoulder at them. "Didn't you glitches hear?"

"Hear what?" Elita asked.

"Our new managers are going to be here tonight."

"Who," the pink femme began, but was interrupted by a loud crash and La Starscreama's frenzied screech.

"TRY TO DROP A CURTAIN ON ME WILL YOU!?!"

"Ah, a good idea," Chromia sighed longingly. "Sadly, like a robo-cockroach, Starscreama's a little harder to kill than that."

"It wasn't me!" Rumble protested from aloft. "I adore you, Prima Donna! It must have been someone else!!!"

"The ghost," Firestar whispered, flashing a triumphant look at Elita and Chromia.

On the stage, Starscreama had clearly had enough. "I have had ENOUGH!" He howled. "Skywarpa, get my bags! Thundercrackera, bring my dog!"

While Thundercrackera scooped Ravage up and Skywarpa vanished to collect the diva's things, Starscreama turned to glare first at hapless Mirage, and then at the rest of the cast. "You," he said, voice dripping with scorn," can carry on without me. Good luck!"

"So who are the new managers?" Elita asked Solara. "They'd better get groveling right away if they want their gala tonight."

"The new managers are no one special," Solara sniffed. "It's our new patrons who are the big scoop."

"And who are they?" Chromia asked, though she was clearly more interested in smirking over Starscreama's less than dignified exit.

"The Viscount Shockwave de Changy and his younger brother, Viscount Megatron de Changy."

"Uh-oh," said Elita, but softly so that no one but Chromia heard.

"What?" The blue femme turned back to her. "You know them?"

"Well," she looked embarrassed," the younger one, he used to have this huge crush on me."

"No."

"Yes, and he used to bring me presents."

"Really? You got presents from a Viscount?"

"Oh yes, one time he gave me the severed head of a mech who had offended him. Another time, he gave me a bottle of high grade distilled from the energon of his enemies."

"Sounds like a charmer. .. But cheer up. You're just a dancer. He'll never notice you."

"What do you mean there is no understudy!?"

"There is no understudy."

"But there must be someone!"

Mirage snorted. "There is no one."

"Well," said Ratchet, and the new managers turned to look at him," actually. . ."

**What? You thought someone else would playing the part of Raoul? ****Three guesses as to who the Phantom is!**

**Short, I know, but I really should be studying. How come no one has done this before? Hm, perhaps that's a stupid question.**


	2. Angel of Music

_and the_

**Chapter Two: **_**Angel of Music**_

_sings songs in my head. . ._

"But I can't sing," Elita protested, in exasperation, for the fifty-third time. The first time had been when Ratchet had informed her, (not asked: informed), that she would be singing for Starscreama at the gala. The thirteenth time had been as the ballet master had brought costumes to be fitted. The thirty-first time had been when Chromia had offered to make sure Viscount Megatron did not make it to the opera so that she could sing without fear. (To which Elita had replied, icily, that she was not _afraid_ of singing, but simply unable to do so.) The forty-eighth time had been as the other ballet dancers had come to wish her good luck with the difficult arias.

"Nonsense," Ratchet said as he readjusted the enormous wig on her head. "I've heard you sing, Elita. You're fantastic." He stepped back and gave her a critical once over. "Starscreama is quite a bit, uh, bulkier than you are, but I think it will do."Behind him on the dressing room couch, Chromia was struggling heroically to keep from laughing. Elita decided not to look in the mirror. "Now," Ratchet continued," I am going to make certain the other femmes are also ready. If you try to run, Elita-"

"You will weld my aft to my faceplates," Elita finished. "Yes, I know."

"Look on the bright side," Chromia said as the door closed behind her father," Megatron probably won't even recognize you."

"I think I'm going to quit showbiz. Could you use another assassin?"

The blue femme shook her head. "Listen, Elita. The dress may be a capital crime against the communal optics of Cybertronians everywhere, but you still make it look good. _I_ have heard you sing, too, and so I am fully qualified to say that you are just as good as Dad thinks you are. Really, you'll be perfect."

Elita cleared her throat nervously. "Well, see. . . There's just one little problem."

"What's that? I can take care of Megatron, if you want me to."

"No, not that," Elita turned away, accidently caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and quickly turned back. "It's. . . You're going to think I'm crazy."

"Maybe, but go on."

"Well, see. . . I have, that is, I can only sing when I have. . . There's this. . ."

"Spit it out, Elita."

"I have a voice in my head."

Chromia blinked. She had expected her friend to say "I can only sing in the shower" or "I can only sing when someone shoves space ice down my back." "Alright," she agreed," you are crazy, but maybe if I hit you one or twice in the head it will knock those loose gears back into place."

"I don't think violence is going to help," Elita said drily. She took a seat on the couch by Chromia. "I can only sing when this voice sings with me."

"What does it sound like?"

"It's a mech's voice, but unlike anything I've ever heard. Hoist doesn't even come close! His voice, in my head," she tapped her temple," is strong, and deep, and sometimes gentle, but brave and fearless too. It makes me want to cry and laugh all at the same time, and it is so beautiful that I just can't _help_ but sing along too."

Chromia considered for a moment. "Perhaps you're just replaying old memories?" She frowned when Elita shook her head. "I bet you have a theory."

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

"Too late."

Elita smiled a little. "When I was just a little femme, I sat at my father's side as he lay dying so suddenly and mysteriously. He promised that he would have Primus send me an angel to comfort me and guide me in my times of need. Chromia," she took her friend's hand earnestly," whenever I have been sad, or discouraged, or upset, I have always heard this voice in my head."

"Somewhere inside? Hiding?"

"Somehow, I know he's always with me. Secret and strange."

"When? How?

"In sleep he sang to me."

"In dreams he came?"

"This voice, which calls to me, and speaks my name. Sometimes, I can't tell whether I dream when I find that he is there, inside my mind."

"Well, If this voice really is an angel," Chromia squeezed her hand," then he won't abandon you now. In any case, I for one believe in you, even if you are completely crazy."

"He'd better not," Elita muttered. A knock sounded at the door, signaling that the curtain was about to rise. "If he isn't, I'm going to croak like a robofrog."

_Meanwhile. . ._

"I cannot _believe_ I let you talk me into this," Jazz, new co-manager of the Opera Popularie Cybertronie, muttered. He sat slumped in his seat, top hat perilously eschew atop his head, looking so depressed, so put-out, so down, so very not _Jazz_ that, for a moment, Prowl really almost regretted dragging his friend into this.

Then, Prowl remembered the last thing Jazz had dragged _him_ into, (it had involved "music", if it could be called that, a great deal of high-grade, and something called a "dance party"), and he didn't feel bad at all. "I thought you liked music."

"Please, I love music, but this," he waved a hand at the stage where Hoist, the lead tenor, had been singing the same syllable for fourteen minutes," is not music."

"Jazz. . ."

"Oh, don't get me wrong. It'd be great, if only the singers would keep their mouths shut!"

Prowl rolled his optics. "You could have said no."

Jazz sighed, rearranging himself restlessly. "I know." On stage, Hoist finally finished his syllable and the curtain mercifully dropped. "On the plus side, Monsieur Viscount Megatron over there doesn't look like he's getting much enjoyment out of this either."

Viscount Megatron de Changy was in fact scowling, (though his elder brother Shockwave looked contented enough.) Clawed fingers drumming on the rail of his box, red optics glared impatiently at the stage.

"He is our patron," Prowl said drily," and I would appreciate it if you could leave off antagonizing him at every turn. We would like to have the money to run this place, wouldn't we?"

"Would we?" Jazz cocked his head to one side, regarding the Viscount speculatively. "Maybe the Ghost will smite them for sitting in his box."

"Primus," Prowl groaned, covering his optics. "Not you too."

"I'm just saying, most superstitions are based in fact."

"I doubt the facts are _anywhere_ close to 'large deranged mech running amok through the theater.'"

"The ballet master and the conductor seemed pretty convinced."

"Wouldn't you, after having to deal with La Starscreama?"

Jazz winced. "I'm not saying that they're not a little crazy, I think they actually _like_ this stuff, for Primus's sake. . . But those deaths. . . Don't you think they were a little odd?"

Prowl shook his head. "No. Probably just poor management."

"But that stagehand? They're still finding pieces of him around."

"I'm sure there is a perfectly logical explanation."

"And that other mech? His energon pump was wrapped up with a pink bow and delivered to La Starscreama in an energon chocolate box."

"Quiet, Jazz. The second act's starting," Prowl leaned forward as the curtain rose. "Now we get to see if this Elita really is as good as Ratchet says she is."

Jazz sighed quietly and decided to let the subject drop. He noticed, however, that Megatron appeared decidedly more interested in the show. The younger viscount was leaning forward, intent on the stage. Though he did not like their patron's expression, Jazz shrugged off his unease and settled back into his seat as the ballet corps sashayed onto the stage.

_Elita-One knows no fear. Elita-One knows no fear. . _. It was true that, to anyone who happened to be looking at her, waiting in the wings, Elita appeared totally calm, totally cool, and totally collected. There was no glint in her eye that hinted at robobutterflies waging in her stomach. There was no twitch in her face to suggest that she was ready to bring up all the energon she had ever consumed. There was nothing in her countenance or stance to suggest that she was anything except prepared and confident.

The truth was, of course, that she had never been more frightened in her life.

_True courage_, she told herself,_ is feeling fear, but not giving into it. Come on, Elita. Buck up, go out there, and knock them dead. . . But what if I can't? What if they all laugh at this ridiculous dress and this STUPID hat? What if I can't sing? What if I can't hear him? Stop smirking at me, Moonracer, or I'll beat your face in until it meets your aft, and then I'll hire Chromia to assassinate you. Oh slag, I can't hear him? Father, where is he? You promised? There's my cue. Frag it all to the pit._ And, with a smile, she glided out onto the stage.

The stage were so bright that, as always, she could not see anything of the audience except the faint glow of optics. A small mercy. The ballet corps finished their final plies and parted to all her to sweep all the way down to the front of the stage. It seemed to Elita that the short walk lasted forever. She felt each and every optic on her, critiquing, finding her unworthy, silently criticizing, condemning her utterly.

She must have looked a little frightened, for Chromia gave her a quick look

Elita opened her mouth to sing, knowing that she was about to embarrass herself so completely that she would never be able to show her face again on the stage or off it, when the sudden warmth of a familiar presence welled in her spark. Fierce elation filled her, for it was indeed her angel and Elita was no longer, and never again, afraid. She felt his strength rushing into her limbs and his unquestiong courage supporting her, emboldening her to step forward. His voice was in her head, and so beautiful, more beautiful than anything she had ever heard or ever could hear, that it brought tears to her eyes. Barely realizing that she was singing too, Elita gave up her entire spark to the moment.

Even the orchestra had stopped playing. Mirage was turned around and staring, jaw nearly on the floor. All the dancers gaped, though Chromia managed to look smug while she did it. The entire audience, from the die hard opera enthusiasts to a certain co-manager, was spellbound. No one moved, no one so much as blinked an optic, as pure note after achingly beautiful pure note fell on their audio receptor.

Elita moved through the following thirteen acts in a daze, enraptured in the glory of the song and that divine voice. Surely, only an angel sent from Primus could sing like that. The audience, jumping to it's collective feet and cheering wildly as she finished the last triumphant note of the final scene, brought her crashing back to Cybertron. Abruptly, she was no longer winging through the triumphant heavens, wrapped in the voice of her angel. His presence vanished from her mind, and Elita was again alone before the madly cheering house.

She managed, somehow, to take her bows, but not without feeling seering optics on her. Elita looked up, and saw that Viscount Megatron watched her with a slight smirk.

_Slag_. Was it too late to put out a hit on him?

Then, the curtain fell for the last time, and Chromia and the rest of the cast were crowding around to congratulate her.

Up in box five, Megatron stood. "You will excuse me," he said silkily, inclining his head in mocking acknowledgment to his elder brother. "I expect that you will. . . arrange things."

"Of course," said Shockwave. "Leave everything to me."

"Excellent." Assured that everything would be as he wanted it to be, Megatron turned his mind to more pleasurable pursuits.

There was an enormous crowd of well-wishers and admirer's outside of the new prima donna's dressing room. Some carried flowers, others energon chocolate, some spouted ridiculous poetry, and all of it was so pathetic that Megatron was barely able to contain his disgust.

He was disappointed when the crowd parted for him. A pity. He had hoped to be given an excuse to tear off a few heads. As an afterthought, he snagged a bunch of roses and a box of expensive energon chocolates from two mechs who, in sheer terror, promptly fainted dead away.

Oh yes. He still had it.

Elita had changed out of her dress, (which, coupled with the hat, Megatron had thought to be quite fetching), into a simple dressing gown. She did not look up as he entered, but remained looking into the mirror with a puzzled expression.

"Little 'lita let her mind wander. Little 'lita thought, am I fonder of ripping mech's heads off, or of tearing out their sparks, or of draining their energon."

"Megatron," the femme said, turning towards him with a bright smile. The _poor_ thing had clearly been pining for him.

"Sweet Elita, it has been too far," he thrust the box and the flowers into her arms. "I hope these small tokens of my affections can make up for the terrible pain you have been forced to suffer through by being away from me."

"Oh Megatron," she whispered, clearly overcome with emotion," only the memory of those _lovely_ picnics," which had been nice enough, except that Megatron had always insisted on torturing some unfortunate mech for her entertainment ," in the attic of your brother's manor have sustained me through the difficult times following my father's sudden and mysterious death."

"I know," he murmured," but do not fear, little 'lita. Megatron is here to take care of you now. No one should be so surprised that you sang so well when I was there to inspire you!"

Elita wondered, as the viscount moved to embrace her, how she would explain vomiting energon all over the opera's new patron.

_Arrogant slagger_, someone muttered.

Megatron stopped his forward advance. Arms still outstretched to grasp Elita, he scowled. "Did you. . . hear something?"

Elita gaped like a robofish for a moment. Even if he was an 'arrogant slagger', she knew that she could not afford to upset him. "Perhaps," she laughed, recovering quickly," it was the opera ghost." To her surprise, Megatron flinched, (or were her optics deceiving her?), and immediately moved back, looking all around the room as if he really expected the ghost to appear. Could the great Megatron, who she had seen effortlessly twist the arms off of mechs two and three times his size, be frightened?

"Well," the viscount said abruptly. "We are going to dinner. Get dressed, and I will have the carriage brought around." He did not give the femme a chance to answer, but swept from the room and slammed the door behind himself.

Alone, Elita's pretty face hardened into a fierce scowl. "No," she growled," what 'little 'lita' loves best is when she is asleep in her nice safe bed and the angel of music sings songs in her head. Songs which do not include gratuitous bloodshed and gore.

"Stupid, fragging little glitch!" She threw the flowers and the chocolates on the floor and, snarling, jumped up and down on top of them. "Who does he think he is!?"

"He's an arrogant slagger."

"Why under the two moons would ANY femme in her right mind or out of it every willing spend more time than it takes to spit in his presence!"

"I'd like to do a lot more than spit in his face for talking to you like that."

"I swear, if he lays ONE finger on me-"

"I'll tear out his spark and feed it to him."

"He makes me so mad I could, I could just. . . I could-" Elita stopped jumping. It was the voice only, it was no longer in her head. Definitely no longer in her head. Slowly, carefully, she looked around.

Only the great mirror, gleaming softly, caught her attention and Elita moved closer. After a moment of staring long and hard at the surface, which showed only her reflection, she started to think that perhaps seeing Megatron again had pushed her over the edge.

Then, inexplicably, the energon candles flickers and went out. Mesmerized, Elita stared as the darkness showed the mirror to be lit from behind. There, silhouetted and newly visible through the thick glass, a mech stood staring back her. A mech who, Elita knew, could only be the infamous Opera Ghost.

**Authoress's Note:**

**The casting was fairly obvious, as far as managers go. I did consider a different pair briefly, but I like Jazz and Prowl and this was the best way to get them page time. I can reveal, exclusively, that many other 'bots and 'cons are scheduled to make appearances, but if anyone would like to request seeing someone in here, I'd be happy to try and work them in. (Can't make promises, though)**

**Funny, btw Ksiezniczka, you should mention Arcee as Christine. . .**

**Thanks Friend of Leo, OptimusxElita4ever, Ksiezniczka, KD Zeal, and Snickerer for reviewing, favoriting and alerting. You are all lovely and wonderful people.**


	3. It is the Ghost

_This chapter includes a character not in the musical/movie: the Perisian (or the Iaconian, in this case). Basically, in the book, he's known the Phantom for a long time, and even saved his life once. (Um, also the Phantom's Siren, though not as important.) The book, FYI, is actually available on project Gutenberg, but be warned that it is, um, a little weird. (Seriously! Raoul is either sobbing, or shooting someone!). When all else fails, wikipedia it._

**Chapter Three:** _It Is the Ghost_

The Ghost was, as Firestar had reported, huge. (At least as big as Megatron, and perhaps a little broader in the shoulder.) He was not, at least to Elita's optics, horrible.

Oh, to be sure the mask was a little frightening, (after all, no one wears a mask unless they have something to hide), and he _was_ wearing a voluminous black cape (which meant that he was A: Up to no good or B: Emo), but really, the red and blue of his armor was rather fetching. His optics were purest blue and their intense gaze pierced straight to Elita's rapidly pulsing spark. The cycling of her intakes was very loud in her audio-receptors, and her equilibrium seemed to be unbalanced by that too intimate gaze._ He sees my very spark. How can he know me so well, and tell me so without even speaking?_ She might have fainted but, as her optics wandered up his face-plates, they happened to lighted the mech's antennae.

Oh, those were _cute_.

Small, fragile and just begging to be- wait. Did they. . . Had they just _twitched_? Primus help her, they had.

Elita could not help herself. Slowly, she reached up, and tweaked them. A little giggle escaped her mouth. She grasped the appendaged more firmly and gave them a tug. Another giggle.

tug

_giggle_

tug

_giggle_

_Why can't Megatron have adorable little antennae? It would have made him nearly endurable. _Not that the Viscount would have borne this indignity as lightly as the Ghost seemed to-

Oh.

Elita lowered her gaze to find an expression of long-suffering exasperation on the Phantom's face. It occurred to her, abruptly, that not only _was_ there apparently an opera ghost, (which meant that those horrible deaths had really probably not been natural), but that she was standing nearly flush against him. Oh, and tweaking his antennae.

Several words and phrases came to mind to describe her situation, but Elita systematically rejected each one as woefully inadequate.

_I_, she thought, _am going to die, _and briefly considered making some sort of very loud noise to at least alert the other opera folk that something was wrong.

The Phantom must have realized the thoughts flashing behind her optics, or else his antennae were seriously tired of the attention. His hands appeared from the shadow of his cloak and rested on Elita's waist. Spark positively _thrumming_, her hands disentangled themselves from the antennae. She stared up into those blue optics, hypnotized, and then the Phantom began to sing.

Now, Elita knew that she was not a silly femme who swooned over any handsome mech who passed through her line of sight. No pair of optics, no matter how gorgeous, had ever made her knees weak. After seeing far too many femme throw their wits and their lives away for nothing more than the aesthetically pleasing, Elita had vowed that _she_ would not follow in their footsteps.

Of course, when she had made that little promise to herself, she had in no way accounted for the glory of this mech's voice. _Primus, is it even __**possible**__ for anyone to sound so beautiful?_ _He's not hard on the optics either. . . Nope, not hard at all. It's really not fair. Oh? You're pulling at me. Do you want me to come? Of course I'll come! Lead on, O Phantom! Kill me or kiss me, I don't care. Just let me go with you._ . .

_**Meanwhile. . .**_

Chromia had finally had enough. Besides being the Ballet Master's daughter, she was also his assistant when he played doctor after performances, and dutifully accompanied him on rounds. It had become apparent to her on this particular night, as she watched him make a fuss over Moonracer's left knee joint, that something was up.

Moonracer's knee was completely fine, for one thing. Even the aqua colored femme, who made a living out of turning every little scratch into an intergalactic crisis, seemed a little unnerved as Ratchet continued gently probing the joint.

Now _that_ was strange.

Ratchet, not yelling, not wielding his Wrench-of-Death, not threatening to reformat some unfortunate bot into a tampon, not even grumbling, just gently, tenderly, examining poor Moonracer's knee. Hm, perhaps the end of the Golden Age was here early.

"I'm sorry," Ratchet said, looking up at one very weirded-out femme," It's. . . Cosmic Rust."

_CLANG_

Ratchet tumbled senseless to the floor. Chromia, (who had evidently inherited her father's throwing arm), turned on her heel and raced from the dressing room, leaving a distraught Moonracer wailing: "Cosmic Rust!? Am I going to die!?"

Finally free, Chromia ran for Elita's dressing room. A strange sense of urgency drove her. She thought, with a sinking spark, that of course Megatron had seen Elita, and was probably even now trying to force himself on the poor femme. _Hang on_, she thought, flashing past a few surprised stage hands, _I'm coming Elita! I'll beat Big Ugly's face in! _Not that Elita was entirely helpless, but she could be painfully polite sometimes.

Chroma turned the final corner, but had only a glimpse of the corridor with Megatron standing before Elita's dressing room before her flight was arrested by a pair of burly arms. Not given even a chance to squeak in surprise, she was hauled out of sight into a dark corner and a large hand was clamped firmly over her mouth.

"Shh," the someone growled. "I don't think you want to disturb him right now."

Chromia thought that she wanted to disturb him in the very worst way possible, if only this _idiot_ would let her go.

He did not, of course, and Chromia discovered that she could not make him. That made her angry and she might have affected some very painful moves, (which she saved only for last resort), except that Megatron picked that moment to burst into very loud, very wet sobs. It gave Chromia pause, at least.

"Viscount?" A mech in expensive clothes rushed past Chromia's hiding place towards Megatron. "Are you-"

**BOOM**

Chromia blinked as a mound of twitching wires and energon (all that was left of the unknown mech) splattered against the wall. She heard Megatron start to whistle, a sound which grew fainter as his footsteps receded. Still, she and her captor stayed very still until the sound vanished completely. Then, Chromia lifted an elbow and drove it quite deliberately into the mech at what she knew to be a very painful juncture.

"Primus bless it!" The mech swore, releasing her at once.

The blue femme spun around, fists clenched and ready to teach whoever had _dared_ to restrain her a very painful lesson!

"You!" She exclaimed, so surprised that she forgot what she had been about to do. Then, she remembered and knocked him flat on his back.

"Slagging femme," the mech hissed, and glared at Chromia as she put a foot on his chassis.

"I know you," she said, matching his glare with one of her own. "You're the Iaconian, the one the rest of the ballet corps are always talking about." Chromia smirked. "They say you know the Phantom."

"And what if I do?"

"There is no Phantom, old-bot."

"Old-bot!?"

"What are you doing here?" She demanded, ignoring his outrage and putting more pressure on his chest plates.

"This is what I get for trying to save the Hatchet's daughter," the Iaconian grumbled.

"Wha-"

He took advantage of her momentary distraction and swept her legs out from under her. Chromia found herself flat on her back, the whirling barrels of two cannons inches from her face. How had a bulky mech moved so fast?

Hm, and what large cannons they were indeed. Such sleek lines and powerful cores. Top of the line plasma, or she was a neck bolt. _Mmmrrrow. . ._

The Iaconian backed up a little bit at the light in her optics. "Um, sorry about that," he rumbled, quickly putting the cannons away. Chromia let out a soft sigh of disappointment. "Ordinarily, I would never lay a hand on a femme, but I have no time to waste." He looked apologetic, like a robo-dog that knows it's done something bad. Chromia fulled expected him to start shuffling his feet soon.

"So," Chromia all but purred," are you gonna give a girl a hand?" He did, and she gave it a squeeze before letting go. "I'm glad you didn't hit me with those big, strong hands." He would, she had decided, never be putting them on any femme ever again.

Except her, of course.

_Ah, well,_ Chromia thought, hiding a smile of satisfaction at the mech's stuttering confusion, _now that he's properly confused, time to focus on helping Elita._

"I'm sorry, but I have to check on my friend," she said. "I'm Chromia, by the way."

"Ironhide," he returned," and your friend is just fine."

The blue femme blinked. "She is? Elita?"

He nodded, impatient. "Yes, she's already been taken care of."

Chromia turned a galaxy class _look_ on him. "'Taken care of'?"

"She's safe," Ironhide amended. "The Phantom has her."

"Well, that's- THE PHANTOM!?"

"SHH!!" The Iaconian hastily covered her mouth

Despite her fury at being so shushed and her concern on behalf of Elita, Chromia couldn't help but noticed that this Ironhide smelled like sun-warmed steel, with just a touch of vintage spiced energon. She took a deep sniff, encoding the scent forever into processors, and only then turned her attention back to his furious whispering. "-rip out our pumps and use them for waste receptacles, so we need to be quiet."

Chromia stared him down cooly, but he would not be cowed so easily. At last, she lowered her optics. _Fine, let him have a round, but as Primus is my witness, I will make him __crawl__._

"Now," she said, after Ironhide had removed his hand," even if I believed in the Phantom, which I certainly do not, why would Elita be safe with him? I mean, he supposedly is a crazed killer, and emo."

"He's not that bad," Ironhide grumbled, motioning her to follow as he headed for Elita's dressing room. "Sure, he can be pretty moody, and he's pretty sensitive about his ugly mug, and he hates it when somebody tracks mud on his carpets, but really, there're worse mechs she could be stuck with."

"It would be tough to top Megatron," Chromia admitted. They stopped in front of the dressing room, and she tried the door. "Locked."

"Stand back," Ironhide commanded. His cannons whirred.

**KA-BOOM.**

_So this is love_, Chromia thought and followed him inside.

The moment they had vanished from the corridor, a large bulky shape detached itself from the shadows. Stealthily, it slid along the hall until it came to the remains of the poor mech who had chanced to get on Megatron's bad side. Then, it bent to feed. . .

_**While, deep beneath the opera house:**_

He was in trouble now. Big, monstrous, huge, hulking, trouble. He reflected on the immensity of this trouble as he stalked through shallow pools and waded through the hordes of robo-rats which inhabited the cellars, and quickly came to the conclusion that it was probably even worse than he believed it to be.

_Great job, idiot. Not enough, is it, that slagger has shown his ugly face again and brought his creepy henchmechs, but now you've gone and got yourself distracted._

Still, as he looked down the unconscious femme cradled tenderly in his arms, the Ghost could not feel too bad. _I had to save her. I had to, even if it means the end of everything. Well, at least I didn't have to listen to Starscreama screech. Always gives me the worst headache. . ._

He came to the edge of a vast underground lake, and flinched as a red and yellow shape appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"My main mech returns! Man oh man, whatcha got there? That is some sweet-"

"Mute it, Blaster."

"Fine, fine, don't get your gears in a grind, but I didn't think a femme was part of the plans."

"Just get the boat."

"You got it."

Elita found her way back from la-la land with difficulty. Her internal femme sensors were going insane: something about Chromia. . . and a mech. . . but that was crazy.

She was lying on something soft, and someone was stroking her face.

"Elita. . ."

The mech's deep voice sent shivers down her spine. If he kept talking, she would just lay there forever.

He did not and, irritated, she onlined her optics.

The Phantom looked back at her, his hand stilling on her cheek. "Don't be afraid," he said.

And strangely enough, she wasn't. Slowly, one pink hand lifted to trail fingertips across the Ghost's mask, and then reached up to grasp his left antenna.

Tug

_giggle_

"I," said the mech, with as much dignity as he could muster while hiding a wince as her tugs pulled his head sideways," am Optimus Prime, and you are in great danger."

**A/N: Slightly inspired by the first episode of a certain anime. Well, it cracked me up. . .**

**Well,iwasgonnaupdateeveryweekbutthenimwritingabookforhopefuleventualpublicationandsoimworkingonthatandthenihaveworkatsixamandthattakesitoutofme,plusivebeenwrongtwoorthreemilesadayandoingcalisteticsandsoimtiredandeverythinghurts,andthentherewastheGREandessaysandtranscriptsforgradschoolandihaveinsomniabecauseinolongerwanttotakemymedicationandthatmeansthatioccasionallyhavepanicattacksandthenidontwanttodoanythinganddidimentionthatiwaswritingbook?**

**:waves cheerfully to lovely reviews/alerters/favoriters: **

**Hello, my name is not actually Rabindranath, and I have severe update issues.**

**:collective groan:**

**but, I did stay a holiday inn express last night! I don't own anything.**


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